


Corresponding Shapes

by gryvon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, M/M, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, The Hale Pack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/pseuds/gryvon
Summary: After a rough night, Stiles texts Scott for a hug but sends the message to Peter by mistake.





	Corresponding Shapes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpookyMiscreant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyMiscreant/gifts).



Stiles is one-hundred and ten percent done. He can neither even nor odd, instead he's off in imaginary numbers or some fucking shit. His dad stormed out after yelling at Stiles again and he doesn't even want to think what horrible conclusion his dad has come to after catching Stiles sneaking in with a black eye, cut lip, and blood that's clearly not his on his sleeve. And Stiles can't exactly tell his father how absolutely horrible Redcaps are because that would book him a one-way ticket to Eichen House.

Stiles flails for where he'd tossed his phone and opens a new message to Scott. _Dude, I am so done. I don't care if you're with Allison right now. I need a hug or at least a friendly voice. Something. Anything. This day is shit. My life is shit. Get over here ASAP._

He may have gone a little overboard there but it's the truth.

He wants to cry, but his body's not quite there yet. He's still got adrenaline coursing through his veins and Jackson's voice echoing in his skull about how he wasn't even supposed to be there in the first place, but, hello, who was the genius that figured out what those horrible little creatures even were, let alone how to kill them? Stiles, that's who. He'd even brought extra tire irons.

If that wasn't enough, the rest of Derek's betas looked at him like he's dirt—he gets enough of that at school, the weekends are his no bullying time—and Derek just stood there like he agreed but didn't care enough to actually tell Stiles to go home.

He paces his room, walking the short path from door to window while his body shakes and he tries to work off all the nervous energy building inside of him. He's just getting himself more worked up, he knows, while his mind spins through everything that he did wrong, everything that was said to him like a dark echo of his inner thoughts. He can't get anything right no matter how hard he tries and for a brief, pitiful moment he considers not trying anymore. Just let Derek and the wolves handle everything on their own without Stiles getting in the way. Maybe then he could make his dad like him again.

Tears do come then because without this fight, what does he have? He has one friend and he knows that if he walks away, Scott will get hurt and his dad will get hurt and then there will be nothing left. No more reason to fight. No more reason to exist.

The window slides up and Stiles turns, arms already out to pull Scott in but it's not Scott in his window. Stiles stares as Peter Hale hitches a leg over the windowsill.

"H-Hey, Peter." Stiles turns and scrubs hastily at his tear-stained cheeks. He doesn't want Peter to see him like this, like some sad, pathetic excuse for a human. "W-What are you doing here?"

"You texted me."

"What? I didn't..." Stiles's eyes widen in horror and he grabs for his phone. "Fuck." The text he thought he'd sent to Scott had gone to Peter instead and he can't.... God, he can't breathe. What has he done? What's Peter even doing here?

What if he told the pack?

What if he goes to school tomorrow and they all make fun of him?

His lungs burn with the need for air. He's trying to inhale but there's nothing there. Nothing but the ringing in his ears and his own panicked thoughts circling like vultures overhead.

Warm arms wrap around him from behind. Suddenly, he can breathe. Peter is a solid weight against his back, like a rock sticking up on a turbulent shore or an anchor keeping him steady. It's everything he wanted when he texted Scott earlier. Better even, because there aren't any questions of what's wrong or an examination of the chaos that is his brain. Was his brain. His thoughts have stilled, leaving him nothing to focus on but the warmth of Peter Hale.

"What..." His voice sounds strange, croaky, like he hasn't spoken in weeks instead of minutes.

"This is what you wanted, right?" Peter's mouth is right next to his ear and it's impossible to pretend that his words don't send a shiver straight down Stiles's spine. A confusing mix of emotions war inside of him. Want, plain as day because he has eyes and he knows zombie Peter is hot as fuck. All the werewolves are hot as fuck. It's like a side-effect of the bite or something. Fear, because he knows Peter will rebuke him just like everyone else has, possibly in some public, humiliating manner. Hope, because Peter came when he had no reason to.

Stiles touches Peter's sleeve, just to make sure this is really happening. The fabric is softer than it looks. Peter's arms are solid and strong and everything Stiles needs right now because he can't hold himself together any longer.

He's not built to be alone but that's all life seems to be giving him lately.

He can't keep doing this. He needs someone. Anyone. At least Peter showed up. That counts for something, right?

He turns. Peter's arms loosen to let him and then close again behind his back. Stiles presses his face against Peter's shoulder. He won't let Peter see him cry. He bites his lip to hold in the wretched sounds that want to escape. His body trembles with the effort to keep it all in.

Peter doesn't let go. One of his hands moves up and rubs small circles between Stiles's shoulders. He's not sure why that's the thing that puts him over the edge. Maybe it's because he's fallen so low as to seek comfort from the last person he'd ever expected to give it.

The first sob tears through him, sharp as knives. He clutches Peter's shirt and cries. He expects Peter to push him away but that moment never comes.

He has no idea how long they stay like that. Long enough for all the bottled-up emotion to drain out of Stiles, leaving him wrung dry. Peter's hold is the only thing keeping him on his feet which means he should end this before he falls asleep standing up.

Stiles presses a hand to Peter's chest. "S-sorry."

Pushing away feels like tearing off his skin. He doesn't want to leave the warmth of Peter's arms, not when he has no idea when he'll feel anything like this blissful comfort again. Peter's arms fall away and some sick part of Stiles that keeps setting himself up to get hurt makes him look up and face the pity he expects.

It's not there. Peter's expression is soft, fond even. His blue eyes are bright in the dim light of Stiles's bedroom. Not werewolf bright but enough that it feels like staring at the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

"Sorry," Stiles says again as he sniffs and rubs his face with his sleeves.

"Are you all right?"

Stiles nods. He isn't all right but Peter doesn't need to know that. His fucked-up life isn't Peter's problem.

Peter regards him silently. Stiles looks away. He doesn't want to see the moment Peter measures him and finds him wanting. He's never enough, even in this.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Stiles's head shoots up and he knows he's staring but he can't help it. Those are possibly the last words he'd ever expect to come out of former serial killer Peter Hale's mouth.

He shakes his head. Peter doesn't want to hear about his teenage angst. "No. It's just..." Stiles waves to encompass his whole house. "...everything."

Peter nods like he understands. Maybe, given the shit hand life has dealt Peter, he does understand. "Get some sleep." Peter moves to the window. He pauses, one leg out, one leg in, and turns to Stiles. "If it gets this bad again, call me. You don't have to do this alone."

Before Stiles can even think of an answer, Peter drops out the window and disappears into the night.

Did he hear that correctly? As impossible as those words seem, he knows Peter's offer is genuine.

Stiles shuts the window and lingers, eyes roving over the shadows as if he could catch a glimpse of Peter waiting there. He shakes his head and starts to get ready for bed.

As he's laying in the dark, he checks his phone and makes sure Peter's number is saved and favorited. He'll message Peter tomorrow to thank him. He might even ask for another hug.


End file.
